A Child At Christmas
by Faithful Bozwell
Summary: A little pastiche about Holmes and Watson's first Christmas in Baker Street.  In the style of my ongoing Watsonfic, Bull Pup's Papers.  Enjoy!


**Hallo, Dear Readers!**

**I haven't updated **_**Bull Pup's Papers **_**for some time, I know. But rest assured there is more to come. **

**In the meantime, here is a little Christmas gift. A pastiche of Holmes and Watson's first Christmas in Baker Street. ;-) As always, the Granada players were my inspiration. But as always feel free to substitute them with the Holmes, Watson and Mrs. Hudson of your choosing. Enjoy! **

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><p><em><strong>~ A Child At Christmas.~<strong>_

That first year together in Baker Street was, to say the very least, interesting. The months rolled by slowly at first. But as my strength improved (aided immeasurably by Mrs. Hudson's coddling and excellent cooking), I became reacquainted with the vigor for life that I thought had deserted me forever.

The chill of the early year gave way to Spring, then Summer. Finally the trees in the parks began to change the colors of their leaves, and give up the ghost. It all seemed to happen gradually; yet so quickly. Now, all these years later, my recollections that long ago 1881 seem to have melded together. But there is one memory that still flashes distinctly in my mind. It was the occasion of our first Christmas together. It all began with my observing the date one morning as I lazily entered the sitting room.

"Morning, Holmes," I yawned, still clad in my dressing gown and slippers. It was a cold, biting morning, but the fire already sang out strong into the room.

"And to you, Watson," said my flat mate, who by the look of it had just lit his pipe with the coal he was replacing back into the hearth with the tongs. He took his seat near the fire and puffed lustily on his pipe.

I sat at the table and began to tuck into my breakfast of eggs and bacon. The morning edition of _The Times_ was on the table, and I leaned it up against the toast rack to read.

"Good Lord," said I, upon reading the date, "it is December the first today!"

"Correct, Watson," answered Holmes with a slight chuckle.

"That doesn't excite you, then?" I asked, spooning more sugar into my coffee.

"I fail to see why it should," he responded innocently from his chair without turning to look at me, "as you've simply stated something no more than obvious to anyone who can read."

I rolled my eyes. "That's not it, Holmes. Christmas will be upon us in a few weeks."

Holmes turned to regard me through the swirl of pipe smoke which now enveloped his chair, and cocked a caustic eyebrow.

"And?"

I paused with my coffee cup in mid-air. "Oh. You don't celebrate Christmas, then?"

"It is of marginal interest, Watson."

It was true that Holmes had revealed very little of his past to me, and I did not press the matter. But to not celebrate Christmas?

"Well," I said, "if nothing else, you must admit that there are some fine tunes attached to Christmas. I wonder if there will be any Carolers in Baker Street?"

"My dear Watson, an orchestra of scorched cats would be preferable."

_Blimey, this was not going to be easy…_

As the weeks passed, my manner slowly reverted to the childlike wonder of my boyhood in December. True, I was no longer that boy, but he still resided inside. As for Holmes, the anticipation of Christmas did nothing to alter his usual, calculating manner.

One week* before Christmas, Holmes and I were out for a Sunday afternoon promenade in the crisp air. The shops began to display their wares: fruits, nuts, cards, books, wine, game and the latest fashions. At the next corner, we passed a toy shop with a gaggle of children around the large front window. I stopped to look in.

"Watson, what are you doing?" said Holmes.

"Oh, come on, Holmes," said I, "Some of these mechanical toys are rather clever and complex. I say, look at that acrobat!"

"The gear system is a trivial one."

It would have been obvious to a blind cat that Holmes was very uncomfortable, so we walked on.

"Holmes, really," I chided. "It's the happiness it gives, not the mechanics of it."

There was a hot chestnut stand on the opposite side of the street. I crossed (with Holmes shouting at me from behind and eventually crossing to meet me) and bought a small bag full. They tasted just like they had when I was young; the richness of earth blanketed by the twilight caress of fire and smoke.

"Delicious! Ha! You know, Holmes, I haven't had these since before I lef—"

I stopped. Memories of Christmas abroad flooded my brain.

"Watson?" inquired Holmes.

"Nevermind. It's just been a long time, that's all. Here, try one."

To my surprise, he did.

The whole rest of that week, as I tried to banish memories of battle from my mind, I found myself in the midst of a different kind of battle. I wanted so desperately to celebrate Christmas with my new friend. But how could I ask him to do something which he clearly put no stock in what so ever? I could not ask him to lie.

On Christmas Eve day, I paid Mrs. Hudson a call in the kitchen just in time to help her with parcels for the Christmas Dinner. The goose, still wrapped in brown paper, was already upon the table, its limp neck dangling off the edge like the free end of a ball of yarn.

"What do you think, Doctor Watson?"

"There never was such a goose, Mrs. Hudson!" I answered, quoting Dickens. I could almost taste it already. But then an image of Holmes's empty chair spoiled the moment.

"What is it?" asked the landlady.

"It's Mr. Holmes, Mrs. Hudson. He doesn't keep Christmas, and I admit I'm at a loss at how to handle it."

"Doctor," said she as she gently eased me into a chair, "if you will pardon my saying so, you have earned the right to a wonderful Christmas. And by heaven I am going to see that you get it. You mustn't take it to heart if Mr. Holmes doesn't want a part in it. Besides, your fervor may rub off, you know."

"I hope it does. But what if it doesn't?"

She put a hand on my shoulder, "Then it doesn't. And you will not be to blame. If needs must, I would be honored if you joined me for Christmas Dinner in my own parlor, Doctor."

That made me smile. "I think the honor would be mine, Mrs. Hudson."

She smiled and took the biscuit tin from the opposite counter. "Well, since you've been such a good helper, here's a treat for you. Stay a bit and I'll make some cocoa to go with it."

"You are an angel, Ma'am," I cooed.

Later that day, I received a few Christmas cards in the post. During the past year I had made a few new friends. One of the cards was from a very nice woman whom I had helped after she slipped on an omnibus. The card was perfumed with orange flower water. I was nearly lost in its intoxicating bouquet when Holmes snorted.

"Bah humbug to you, too," said I.

Holmes's face pinched with disdain, "A card from a female, no doubt."

"How perceptive, old man," I answered, "Top form as usual."

Then a thought came to me. I smiled devilishly and walked over to the mantel, and propped my few cards up on it.

"Watson, what do you think you are doing?"

"Decorating," I said, firmly as I could. "It's what people do at Christmas. This is as much my room as it is yours. You know, I think I'll just pop out and get some holly for the mantel…"

His eyes became the size of dinner plates.

"And why shouldn't I, Holmes?"

Holmes shifted in his chair, "It's childish."

"Not a very logical answer, Holmes," said I as I propped an arm against the mantel and regarded my flat mate. "Come now, what would really be so bad?"

He did not answer.

"Well, if you can't give me a satisfactory reason, then I shall ignore your tantrum."

"Tantrum? How dare you—"

I summoned up the Army Officer buried within me, "Yes, tantrum! Lord knows you have plenty of them. You're a fine one to call anything childish with the way you've been acting."

"Watson, you have no right—"

The words flew out of me, "I have every right, dammit! I am damned glad to be home and alive and by God I will celebrate Christmas with or without you! For once I shall take over the sitting room, and Mrs. Hudson will join me. If you don't like it, then sod off to your own room and stay there! But for now if you'll pardon me, Mr. Scrooge, the air in here is a bit foul at present."

"Where are you off to?"

"As if you care!" I bellowed back as I snatched my hat and coat from the hat tree. Then I slammed the sitting room door behind me.

I walked for I don't know how long. Nor did I care in which direction I was going. The brisk air wrenched the blood from my face, and my temper soon began to cool. At length I found myself in front of that same toy shop, and watched the children look in the window. In their faces I saw myself, as well as the faces of my comrades who were buried half a world away. Some of them I had raised a Christmas canteen with and sung Carols while we were off in some God-forsaken corner of the globe. Some of them had died in my arms.

"Watson!"

_Holmes?_

I turned around to behold Holmes dashing down the street toward me with my medical bag clutched in his hand. Next to him was a girl in ragged clothes who looked to be about twelve years old.

"Watson!" exclaimed Holmes, "Thank heaven. There is an emergency."

"What on earth?" I inquired.

"Doc!" said the girl, tugging on my sleeve, "Mum's gone into her pains. The baby's comin'. We can't afford no doctor, and she's bad off. Hurry, please!"

Holmes hailed a cab, and before long we found ourselves in an obscure part of the city in a ramshackle building, two rooms of which constituted a home for this girl and her three siblings. Sally led me by the hand into the next room where her mother was writhing in agony on the heap of what had once been a bed. There was a bowl of steaming water and some strips of cloth already laid out.

"Sally," I said to the girl, "I want you to wait out there, and take care of your brothers and sisters. And ask Mr. Holmes to come in here."

"I've been through this before, Doc, I knows what to do," she answered as cool as ice. Holmes entered the room rather timidly. The moment that poor woman screamed with the pain of another contraction, every trace of color drained from his face.

"Holmes, get over here. Now."

He obeyed reluctantly as I put my hands on her abdomen to assess the condition of the child.

_Damn. It's stuck._

"Watson, I—"

"I need your help," I said as I took off my coat and rolled up my sleeves.

"Doc," murmured the woman, "save my baby."

"Easy now, Mrs. Warren," I said as gently as I could as I took her hand, "this one just wants a little help, that's all." I turned to Holmes. "Sit behind her and help to hold her. She'll need something to hang on to."

He did as instructed, and ensconced himself between her and the wall behind. With the next pain the woman inhaled sharply and locked her work-worn hands on Holmes's. The plaster wall crumbled a bit onto his shoulders, looking like grey snow. I opened my bag and removed a small, thick leather strap.

"Here, Mrs. Warren. This will help."

The pain reflected in her eyes changed to fear as she bit down. Holmes placed one hand on her forehead, and she looked up at him.

"It'll be alright," he whispered as if he were addressing a small child freshly woken from a nightmare, "Watson's the best doctor in London."

And at last when the child was delivered, it cries were loud enough to wake the world. Mrs. Warren was understandably exhausted, but she would thankfully recover.

"Mum?" said Sally from the doorway.

"Fine, Sally," I said, "It's a girl, my dear."

"Aw, not another one!" said a little boy next to her who was nearly as tall as she was.

Sally elbowed him, "Shut up, you!"

"Now now, your mother is resting," I instructed. By now I had washed the baby and wrapped her up warm. As soon as Sally began to help me with the necessary cleaning that comes after a birth, Holmes pried himself out from behind Mrs. Warren. Wringing his hands, he took the young boy into the next room. Sally joined them when we were finished, and I followed soon with the baby after seeing that Mrs. Warren was resting comfortably.

"Watson, that woman has hands as strong as a blacksmith's!" Holmes whispered to me in agony as he hunched down near the low fire. In spite of being close to the fire, he was still dreadfully pale.

I chuckled softly and patted his shoulder, "You'll live, old fellow. Keep rubbing them."

One of Sally's little sisters walked over to Holmes. She was about his height (as he was crouched down), and took one of his hands in hers.

"Be bettah soon, Mistow Shew-wock," she said as she gently patted his bruised palm and forearm.

"Um, yes. Thank you Betsey," said Holmes in response. Then he glanced over at me. I winked at him.

"Sally," I said to the girl, as I sat with the baby in a chair with faded red paint, "tell me, why did you seek out Mr. Holmes when your mother went into labor?"

"Oh, me brother and I does work for 'im now and then," she answered as she poured me a cup of coffee.

"They are extra eyes and ears," said Holmes, with pride in his voice, "They have the ability to venture where the Police cannot, Watson, and provide a most useful recognizance."

As he spoke, Holmes's eyes twinkled. So help me, they actually twinkled.

"Babby, Mistow Shew-wock!" said Betsey, exuberantly guiding Holmes to an equally shabby nearby chair and pulling him down onto it. I nearly shrieked with laughter as she climbed up onto his lap!

"Doktow," she said to me, arms outstretched, "babby!"

Holmes looked at me in desperation.

"Sorry Holmes," I said, approaching with the joyous bundle, "I always do what a pretty girl tells me. Officer's code, you know. Help her, Holmes. You must support the baby's head. Here, like this."

Holmes held Betsey's arms, and she giggled as she held her little sister, "Pwet-ty!"

"Yes, indeed she is, Betsey," said Holmes. His countenance had changed, and he regarded the little creatures with a wonder I had never seen him display.

We stayed for a few more hours to make certain everything was alright. I regaled them with one of my stories from India about a tiger. By then the father had returned (Sally rushed out to fetch him) from his coal deliveries and nearly shook my arm off with gratitude. I laid his new daughter in his arms and we went in to see his wife.

"Mr. 'olmes said you were the best," said Mr. Warren, "and by thunder 'ee's always right! Thank you, Doc."

"Pa, let's call 'er Holly!" said Sally.

"Aw no," said the boy, who received another elbow to the ribs from his elder sister.

Mrs. Warren, still quite tired, nodded in agreement.

"Holly it is, my dears," said the proud father, kissing his new daughter and glowing wife in turn.

Not long after that we prepared to take our leave.

"I—I can't pay you, Doc," said Mr. Warren sheepishly, as he accompanied us to the door.

"No charge, Mr. Warren," I said, extending my hand to him.

"If you 'adn't come—" he said, choking back tears.

"Don't think on that. Celebrate with your fine family. I'll come back tomorrow and check on them. Merry Christmas."

"God bless you, Doctor Watson."

Holmes and I left the Warren's home and were about twenty feet away from their door when we heard a voice.

"Oi!" said Sally as she and Betsey ran to catch us up, "I forgot summat. Merry Christmas, Doc," she said, and put something into my hand. It was a lovely sprig of mistletoe.

"Fell from a cart," she shrugged as she winked and picked up Betsey.

"I see," I answered as I winked back, "Well thank you, Sally."

Betsey reached for my lapel, and kissed my cheek, and gave me a cuddle. Sally did the same. Betsey's arms then sought out Holmes's neck. He momentarily froze, but then he softened.

"Merry Kwissmiss, Mistow Shew-wock," said Betsey looking at him. Holmes flashed a smile and brushed his fingertips lightly against her cheek. Then she giggled and the two girls scurried back inside.

It took Holmes a moment, but he looked over at me. I smiled as we approached the cab Mr. Warren had flagged.

"It is good to be children sometimes, and never better than at Christmas, when its mighty Founder was a child himself**," I said as the cab sped along the cobbles.

"I see," responded Holmes, "Though Sally is very grown up for a girl of her age."

"She has to be," I answered, "And little Betsey will follow suit, I am sure."

"Indeed. They are a lucky family."

When we had returned to Baker Street, the sitting room fire was roaring in the grate. To my delight the room was bedecked with holly and ivy. Cocoa and biscuits were awaiting us on a little table near the fire.

"Watson, I owe you an apology. If a family that poor can find joy in this night, then perhaps there is something to it after all. I had no right to crush your revelry."

I could tell that he wanted to say more; perhaps about his own Christmases as a youth. But he spoke not another word.

"Done and forgotten, my dear fellow," I said as I bit into another biscuit.

Later, Mrs. Hudson brought us a bottle of port. We insisted that she stay for a glass, which she cheerfully accepted.

"I take it, Mr. Holmes, that you shall be partaking of Christmas Dinner tomorrow?" she asked.

"Correct, Mrs. Hudson," said Holmes puffing away on his pipe.

"Excellent. Well, Doctor, you shan't need me, then."

"On the contrary, my dear Mrs. Hudson, I trust I shall always need you."

I took out the mistletoe, and she giggled as I pulled her into my arms respectfully. I heard Holmes click his tongue as I kissed our dear landlady.

"By Jove," I exclaimed innocently when I had released her, "there's one berry left!"

"So there is," said Mrs. Hudson with equal playfulness.

We both turned to Holmes.

He choked on his pipe and eyes narrowed, "You wouldn't you dare."

I grinned wickedly.

"Try me."

Perhaps someday I shall write the account of The Airborne Detective. But the world is note quite ready for that yet.

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><p><strong>Merry Christmas, Everyone!<strong>

**Thanks as always to my readers and subscribers. :-)**

***Interestingly enough in 1881, December 25th was, just like 2011, on a Sunday. **

****From Charles Dickens's _A Christmas Carol _(1843).**


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